Taken by the Sky
by merthyr
Summary: You wake up in a body that is not your own, in a world you knew only in stories. The threads of the future are in your hands, but there are years yet until the story unfolds... and Flemeth is watching you. / A modern girl in Thedas story.
1. Chapter 1

**Taken by the Sky**

 _ **Part One: The Wilds**_

 **BEGINNING**

* * *

It burns hot, then cold, and then somehow both, before fizzling into an inescapable itch. _Remade_ , a single voice whispers in your head- and there are so many of them, sizzling the synapses of your brain _. AWAKE_ , another says, louder than the rest. Your eyes open _._ Light filters through yellow leaves, the ground beneath you is wet and you are so, so tired.

 _Awake_. I can't. _Then sleep_.

The last moment is simply sensory. A pair of arms snaking under your shoulders and around your knees, lifting you up, up and then…

 _Blood, laimsa, WRONG, dream._

"What is _that_?"

"It's a girl, child. Am I to presume you've lost your sight as well as your wits?"

"No, I-" An exasperated scoff. A door shuts and opens and a warm draft sweeps over your skin. The smell of campfire is overwhelming. "Am I allowed to ask _why_ you're bringing this girl into our home?"

"You can. Although I shan't answer." The world tilts as you're lowered, the whispers sinking. "And neither will she."

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _Awake_.

You try to sit up but your bones creak and your body is bound in furs. There is no plastered ceiling above you, merely a layer of worn wooden slats, and the air is mired in a smoky haze. You can hear the crackle and pop of a fire, which strikes you as strange, because your room doesn't have a fireplace.

You're not tired, but you are hurting. Your body feels like it's been pounded into paste and pulled back together with plastic wrap. And your head...

"So, you've decided to rejoin the land of the living. Tell me, did you have pleasant dreams?"

"Who are-" Your head turns and your voice cracks like kindling. By your bedside is an elderly woman with eyes as yellow as a cat. Her clothes are absurd- roughspun garments, dyed in faded russet and forest green, the edges trimmed with leather.

The woman snorts, not very impressed with you, but maybe a little amused. "Not even a day to your name and you're already asking the wrong question. It matters little what you call me, child. The question you should be asking is who are _you_?"

You blink slowly, deliberately, trying to parcel out what (and who?) she's talking about. There are no good answers.

"What on-" earth are you talking about? Your breath stops and your mouth won't move for the words. "What- What on-"

A tidal wave of voices rise from your spine and riot between your ears. _No. No. You can't. ENAAN DIANA. Keep it in._

The woman's wry smile thins.

Your voice is strained and whisper soft when you ask, "What have you done to me?"

"I have done very little, save for the very beginning. The rest was you."

Your eyes flicker to the cracks and corners of this strange place. A ladder leaning on a loft. The walls, worn and nearly stripped of paint. Animal pelts and herbs strung like garlands around the room. A spindle by the bed, a churn by the only door. That door is hanging open and the night is dark as pitch.

"Where have you brought me?" Your voice gets stronger as you work it, the tone sounding strangely sweet.

"My home."

"Where?"

"Elsewhere. Far away. My home, but not yours. Well, not until now." She chuckles, "There is little I can tell you that you don't already know. The rest you will have to learn for yourself. And trust me, you will learn." Her head twists, smile in place but eyes narrowed. "I see, though, that you are not yet plagued by the fade. I suppose I should let you enjoy it while you still can. I am not without pity, after all."

They are parting words, and you are far from done with her. "Wait!" You cry out, and your voice still sounds so very wrong, but you manage to gasp out one more question. "At least tell me your name?"

"You keep asking questions that you could easily answer yourself. You know me as Flemeth, although I suppose…" She taps a spindly finger to her chin, "Hm. A piece without a puzzle… You have given me much to think about. We shall have to see what becomes of you. Until then-"

 _Sleep_.

.

.

.

Sleeping is quiet, for a time.

Your dream is simple. You're on a rocky beach, standing on broken seashells and slippery stones. There is a looming cliff behind you, and another hanging weightlessly above the sea- perched on it's point is city cloaked in darkness, it's black spires piercing a sunless sky.

Your name is whispered into your ear, but when you swing your head, no one is there.

.

.

.

It's the smell that wakes you at last. Tender and spicy, like a winter stew, alongside the mellow sweetness of cooked vegetables. Your stomach growls in appreciation.

"-but I think your _guest_ has woken up." Someone says with saccharine sweetness.

"She is no more a guest than you are. But you're nearly right. Are you hungry, girl?"

It takes you a moment to realize that you are 'girl'. It isn't that you're still tired, or even that you're scared. You are… thoughtful. Deliberating. _Numb_. And yes, perhaps you might even be a little afraid. If things really are as they appear, then you are in deep, deep shit.

"Come now, we'll not wait forever."

You open your eyes and turn your head towards the light. There is Flemeth, sitting in a rickety chair with a wooden bowl in her hands, and standing beside her is her young, beautiful daughter.

"Does she know how to speak?" Morrigan asks.

"Better than you cook." Flemeth replies.

Morrigan folds her arms and glares, her fingers wrapped around a ladle like she'd rather it was a dagger. Your eyes roam down the curve of her cheek towards the thin span of her waist. You're not sure how old Morrigan was meant to be during the… events, but you think this girl looks too young for adventure. She wouldn't look out of place in a high school bathroom, applying too much eyeliner into a murky mirror.

"Why do I even bother? Perhaps our extended guest will be more forthright... Not that that's hard. Now," Morrigan's attention flutters back to you, "Do you know any Common?" She speaks another language then, guttural and foreign, and yet the right words echo in your ears, "Are you Chasind then? Avvari?"

Your mouth opens, closes, shuts. The whispers are quieter than they first were, but they are no less present, pulsing and pushing until you are left with nothing but lies.

"She has nothing to say to you." Flemeth says. Her eyes cut to you and there's a calculating shine in them that you don't like the look of. "Bring her a bowl of broth."

"Lovely. Am I now to be a nursemaid?" Morrigan grumbles, but she turns around anyways and begins to rifle through the shelves for cutlery. Quite scathingly, she says, "I'd heard tales of you stealing young girl's from their beds. I never thought that they were true."

Flemeth snorts, "What you know about me could fit in a thimble."

She spoons the broth into the bowl, thinner than the stew from your imagination, but no less appealing to your shrivelled stomach. You wonder, briefly, if you should worry about being poisoned, but the thought leaves as soon as it arrives. You can hardly believe you're here, there's no room in your mind to ponder repercussions and implications. What matters is that you are hungry now. As you untangle yourself from the mess of furs and quilts you realize that you're completely bare, but by the time you've sat up Morrigan has brought you a bowl. You grab it with one hand, the other holding a quilt to your chest in needless modesty and-

-the bowl slips from your fingers, the broth sloshing over furs. Morrigan curses, but you hardly notice because something is so very wrong.

 _New_. _DIFFERENT_.

No. No, no, no.

These hands are wrong. Your chest is- it isn't meant to look like this, so small and, and… You scramble from the bed, your legs lifting out, sliding over soup and sopping pelts. You fingers bracelet your knees, your ankles. They're so very small, small in a way a woman's body just isn't, and you let out a great cry once you can no longer deny the… the _childishness_ of it all.

This isn't your body. This isn't your body, this isn't your house, and everything is _wrong_.

"Mother!" Morrigan shouts over your keens, "What is wrong with her!? Ugh, she's gotten it everywhere!"

She steps back when you start to scream, lips curled in distaste. Flemeth ignores her and walks deliberately to your side. She slides something from the pocket of her apron and lifts your face from the clasp of your hands with surprising gentleness. Your eyes are wide, pupils blown, and your cheeks are glossed with tears.

"Take this, child." She places a leaf upon your tongue. "Now chew." You do.

It doesn't take long for the world to get quieter. Your whimpers fade and everything softens. The fire becomes hazy, faces a feather soft blur. Even the whispers seem to fade away. It takes no effort at all for Flemeth to lean your heavy body against the wall. When she places a bowl to your mouth your lips part without protest.

"Here, child. You'll need something to settle your stomach."

"Surely she has a name." Morrigan is still rooted to her spot with morbid fascination, "Or did you not bother to ask before stealing away with her into the night?"

Flemeth wipes a trail that dribbles to your chin. The warmth is hypnotic. "We'll call her Rhiannon."

"' _We'll call her?_ ' Mother, she is not a pet. You cannot just- _name_ a stray child. She's not so young that she wouldn't remember her own, she won't answer to it."

"And why not? You need not answer to Morrigan, and yet you do, just as I answer to Flemeth, mother or old hag. Names are pretty, but mean little in the grand scheme of things. She will adjust. Now, wash these furs before they dry. I don't want the smell to stick to them."

They talk more, bickering and nagging, but your tongue tastes like thyme and you are _floating_. You don't remember anything more from that night.

* * *

 _Did we need another modern-girl-in-Thedas story? No. Am I going to write one anyways? Ohhhh yes._

 _Hahaha. I'm trash. This is trash. But hey, if you like the taste of garbage...? Let me know what you think, and what you'd like to see in the future. I've got a good idea of where this is going, but there's lots of room to grow._


	2. Chapter 2

**Taken by the Sky**

 _ **Part One: The Wilds**_

* * *

You can't stay silent forever, though you do try.

The loft is cramped and nearly cozy, the little space not taken by books given to a squat cot stuffed with sweet grass. Most of the books are shelved on rough hewn planks, stretching from floor to ceiling, and the rest are scattered on the ground in stacks. You leaf through a dustless tome stretched wide between your legs, fingers curling around the cover and smoothing the soft pages. It isn't paper, the texture is wrong.

Vellum .

Visions of open fields filled with grazing calves fall over your eyes like a film. Your press your hands to your eyes and release a ragged groan. It's so strange, but you should know better by now than to be curious- looking at the books only ever makes it worse.

Sometimes you think that the dream is almost done and the whispers have finally released you, but then you'll find yourself questioning or wondering, and they rise up your throat like acid, reminding you that when you're here you're never truly alone.

"Your supper is ready, beastie!" Morrigan's voice drifts through the cracks, her sarcastic after-quip a mere rumble through the floorboards.

You close the book and swing your legs off the cot. Your finger swipes over the title as you reshelve it, thumb bumping over the branded letters. ATLAS OF SOUTHERN THEDAS . It isn't written in the roman alphabet, arabic script or kanji characters. It's something wholly different, strange in a way you'd never have come across in your world- the real world, that is.

And yet you can read what's written. You try not to think about it too deeply.

"Mother will be very cross with me if she finds you dead of starvation!" Morrigan says in sing-song.

You scramble to the ladder. On the first day you were here, dawn to dusk, you'd tried to ignore Morrigan and she had not been pleased. After five minutes of waiting she'd found you curled in a corner and had mercilessly clacked the bowl to your teeth. She'd given you a little verbal lesson on blood magic and how it could be used to suck the will from its victims- and then told you how very tempted she was to use the darker arts. Naturally, the second day you were down and at the table as soon as you heard her put the pot on the hook.

Your feet lift off the rung and onto the ground. On the ground floor Morrigan stands alone, bowls of boiled beets laid out on the table by the fire. She's facing away from you, eyes sightless, with her arms crossed like she's holding something in.

You've been here four days. You haven't said a word to her.

"...Morrigan."

She turns to raise an eyebrow, a still frame suddenly animated and says. "Oh, so you do speak."

There was so much you could have said right then: Thank you for feeding me, I know it's a bother. Sorry for lying in bed all day, I'm trying to send my soul to another plane. I used to have a mild crush on you, but only when I thought you were fictional. Also I know more about you than you'd ever want me to and your mother houses the soul of an ancient, defied elf.

The door swings open and Flemeth saunters in.

Hanging on Flemeth's arm is a big splint basket, green onion stalks poking out from beneath a holey piece of cloth. She left late last night and has only just gotten back. You absently wonder where she goes. Perhaps this is normal behavior- Morrigan doesn't seem to think it worth commenting on, at least not to you, but you don't imagine yourself sticking around long enough to find out.

"Hello, mother. It seems that your extended guest has found her voice at last."

"And she wasted it on you? Fah."

Morrigan sighs and sits to eat. You join her, perched on the edge of your chair. Flemeth ignores you both, dropping her basket on the table before turning around and setting out once again for the wilds.

You don't speak again that night.

.

.

.

"Take the girl outside with you."

"Excuse you?" Morrigan already has one foot out the door, her face lit silver by starlight.

"You heard me."

"And do what, exactly?"

"The same that I did to you, all those years ago."

"And why can't you do it?"

"Shall I, then?"

Morrigan doesn't say anything for a long moment. She takes a step inside, towards the dying embers of the fire. "Well then. Come along beastie."

.

.

.

Morrigan guides your steps through the fens, more patient than you'd come to expect, and leads you to a dark water pond ringed with shivering aspens. You stare into the water, your reflection crowned by the full harvest moon, and wonder about portals to other worlds.

Morrigan wanders around the ring of the pond; she looks older in the nightlight. "What do you dream of?" She asks.

Your feet are bare and your toes are slicked with mud. The whispers get louder the closer you stand to the water, but you think you're starting to understand.

Dreams, the city, BLACK, there, the wind, the sea...

"...The sea." You say, the first real thing you've said since Flemeth.

It takes her some time to reach you- she might not have actually expected you to answer. Instead of explaining, asking more questions, or clarifying she prowls to your side and slides a hand up your neck, her fingers curling into your hair-

-and you see the possibilities in an instant. She pushes you, you stumble, and her foot presses you down, down into the muck, down where you can't breathe-

But her hand falls limp, odd but innocent, and you can't help but hear a rattle in her breath.

"Then think about water." She snaps and stalks away to the trees. She ignores you for the rest of the night, and nothing else happens. Still, a part of you realizes that something should.

.

.

.

"Back so early?"

Morrigan climbs the ladder and doesn't say a word.

After that night Morrigan is gone more often than not.

When you wake up, you swear you smell salt in the air. But then the sleep seeps out of you and the weight of the world settles onto your chest. There's no salt, but there is a little smoke. Someone is home.

You shift in your bed, peering over the frame to look between the floorboards. There's a flash of amber over steel gray, and you realize that for the first time in a long time you are alone in the house with Flemeth.

She doesn't look up when your toes touch down on the dirt, eyes intent on a half rolled scroll. Despite the fire, your skin ripples with goose pimples beneath your thin, hand-me-down shift. You step closer, closer, careful but quiet, expecting her to say something at any moment but… nothing.

"I've been here a week."

"Nine days." She says, then looks up. "And ten nights. But who's counting?"

You have, but you were asleep too long to be sure.

With trepidation, you settle yourself onto the edge of the bed (her bed, you've realized in days past) and ask, "Can you… Is there a way to go back?"

"Do you think you'd still be here if I knew?" She shakes her head, "That path isn't mine to walk."

"You don't have any idea?"

"Not one."

That- That wasn't what you wanted to hear. For a moment you wish you could turn back time so that you'd never have to know, so that you could go on with the idea that everything was temporary and- and you'd already known, hadn't you? You knew this whole time but if you'd admitted it then you'd have wondered how you knew, and...

"I'm going outside."

Flemeth nods, like wandering off into the night is only to be expected, and there's the smallest glimmer of what looks like sympathy in her eyes. 'I am not without pity.' She'd said, and you suppose if anyone would understand it would be Mythal, who crawled her way from the bygone world of yesteryear.

You don't think while you walk. It's been your deliberate state of mind for the last nine days and ten nights and it's unraveling at the seams, tangling like Ariadne's thread over boulders and bushes until, finally, you step into the dark-water pond and all that's left is you, yourself, and the whispers.

The wonderful thing about the woods is that no one can hear you scream. You can't hear anything else, either, which is so nice you yell yourself ragged. The rage goes quick, and the grief settles in quicker. You cry, crouching down in stagnant water and sobbing into the crook of your knees, wondering what you'd ever done to deserve this. Soon even that gets tiring so you lift your sodden face… and then blink in wonder at what you've done.

You're cold -how could you not be, half dressed at the crack of dawn, calf deep in pond scum- but you didn't realize that the water had frozen over.

Mana, the ice, open the fade again and see..

The whispers are annoying, but at least they're trying to be helpful. Too exhausted to think about it further you step out of the water, lay down on the dewey bank, and fall asleep.

.

.

.

Sleeping is quiet.

Your dream is simple. You're on a rocky beach, the waves washing over your feet. There is a looming cliff behind you, and another hanging weightlessly above the sea- perched on its point is city cloaked in darkness, it's black spires piercing a sunless sky.

Your name is whispered into your ear, but when you swing your head, no one is there.

* * *

 _Disassociating is fun, especially when you have a lot of homework due the next day!_

 _These are really fun to write! I think everyone should write at least one self-indulgent fanfiction, it's good for the soul. I've actually forgotten to update this one alongside my A03 page, so I'll be staggering the chapters over the next few days. My A03 is the same as my fanfiction, though, if you're impatient._

 _Thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Taken by the Sky**

 _ **Part One: The Wilds**_

* * *

You sit up and shake the grass out of your hair.

There, huddled beneath an aspen, alone with your thoughts and your actions, you make a promise to yourself. No more tears, no more anger. Crying won't do you any good. But magic… magic might save you.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you wander back, and while the dew long gone your ice is still pristine on the pond. When you enter the shack Morrigan and Flemeth both look up from their work with insight in their eyes. You wonder how they see it so quickly. You're different than before, you know it, you just don't know how you know it. Is it a smell, a look…?

 _A rent in the fade, THE FADE, open the fade again and see…_

Flemeth shoots Morrigan a glance you don't understand before turning to you with an incisive half smile. "So it begins."

.

.

.

Reality sinks its teeth into your life in unexpected ways.

It's the things you vaguely understood but never truly thought of that trip you up. Like how ashes can't just sit stagnant in a hearth and need to be swept; or that beds without springs need to be aired and changed; or how chickens don't lay eggs in neat little rows for you to find, and instead, shoot them out haphazardly around the marsh like an easter egg hunt from hell.

Magic makes a world of difference, and you wonder how other people even make do. Magic lights fires, wards the livestock from harm and keeps the lopsided shack dry even in the damp of the wilds.

And of course you must learn it all, both the mundane and the magical, as soon as soon as you can.

Cleaning is hard but intuitive -there are only so many ways to move a rag- and most of it is delegated to thoughtfully placed wards and charms. On the other hand, you always thought of yourself as an okay cook, but once you take away the gas stove and the food processor it turns out you're abominable. After a particularly terrible attempt, Morrigan makes you scrub out the charred belly of the pot by hand, 'managing' you with a smirk on her face, though you swear she knows a way to do it with magic.

Morrigan... Morrigan is a strange creature, and you don't know where you stand with her.

One night she comes home with the splint basket stuffed with cloth and rags. From the pile, she pulls out a blouse that would have fit you fine in another life and holds it up in front of you with a squint. "It will do." She says as she tosses it onto the table alongside the rest, "I tire of seeing you in your undergarments. Feel free to peruse at your leisure."

"...Thank you." You say, apprehension apparent. It's silly, but you feel a flare of protectiveness towards your shift. You've been wearing it for quite awhile and... perhaps she has a point.

Morrigan sighs. "You are welcome, I suppose. I will take my leave then. Goodbye, mother."

Flemeth doesn't reply. She's been sitting beside the fireplace, staring and doing… whatever it is she does. You won't even pretend to know. You think you might offer Morrigan a smile goodbye since her mother can't be bothered, but she's gone before you can make the gesture.

You rifle through the basket, finding tattered skirts and frayed braided belts, your nose wrinkling as the scent of must wafts through the air. You take the blouse, a belt, a pair of leggings that look like they might fit one day, and a skirt that has fewer holes than the rest and may or may not have been red at one point in time.

You do a very good job of not thinking about where these things come from until you spy the little leather pouch at the bottom of the basket. There are two long strings to pull the mouth tight, and wreathed on the front are little embroidered flowers. You wonder who took the time to place such tiny, even stitches...

"It will not be missed." Flemeth startles your revelry. She stands from her chair and pats the soot from her apron. "The moon is rising. It's as good a time as ever."

You nod, putting aside your new treasures to be cleaned thoroughly at another time, and follow her outside for another lesson on magic.

.

.

.

Sharp but concise, Flemeth begins to ford you through an ocean of information. At first your lessons are broad but simple. Push your will like _so_ , move the fade like _this-_ No! Not like _that_ you halfwit! Once she's satisfied you won't burn the house down, she brings you back inside and shows you how to boil water to clean your clothes… and to take a bath, if it so pleases you. Never before have you been so motivated to learn.

When Flemeth is gone, as she so often is, you read. After all, once your chores are complete, what else is there to keep yourself occupied with? You read more than you ever thought you could, until your eyes burn and your brain feels like it's been run over by a bus. You learn strange, profane things in these books- about the cryptic kingdom's ruled by powerful demons in the fade, the different ways to boil a man's blood, and of the sadistic cults that sacrificed animals, men, and themselves in their quest for power.

But just as all magic is not dark, so too are there books that linger on the lighter side of the arcane. It's one such book that finally got you to venture out of the hut and into the wilds- a beautiful tome, filled with illustrations and descriptions of useful plants for poultices and potions.

There's a creeping plant with red, sharply shaped petals arching over the doorway- looking at it wiggles a path through your brain. You climb the ladder and find it's picture in the book: _TREFIR'S POINTS: Highly poisonous. Poison is procured from dark brown seed pods. Can treat problems of the heart in large beasts_. You laugh, because would Flemeth really decorate her shack with a deadly flower? Yes, yes she would.

The revelation sends you on a small hike around the area, carefully taking cuttings and scouring the pages for their painted twins. It's… fun. The air is warming, the grass is browning, and your thoughts are somehow clearer in the wild; less muddled, more your own. The whispers are quiet and for the first time in a long time, you feel alone, not lonely.

It's so strange to think, but time is passing. Two months, nearly three. The moon has kept turning and now the season is changing. 'You will learn.' Flemeth had said to you that first night, and you have, you've depended on learning to keep you hopeful.

Still, sometimes you wonder if you'll never find a way home. What could you possibly do with yourself?

Well, you've always had a bit of wanderlust in you. Discovering the world like this? It almost makes it feel like it's yours. Eventually, you spend a whole day meandering in the marshes, toes splattered with mud from the lowlands and a small smile on your face.

When you come back for supper only Flemeth is there. "You spent all day traipsing in the wilds, did you?"

"I... Yes. You're both always gone." You reply. An accusation or explanation, you're not entirely sure. Should you apologize?

"Hm. Normally I wouldn't bother but-" She snorts and waves a hand, "Don't lose yourself. Or should I say to remember yourself? I suppose it's whichever you feel fits."

You're not sure you understand. You nod anyways.

.

.

.

One morning Morrigan presses the splint basket to your chest and tells you, very politely, to get lost.

It's really no issue. The sky is electric blue, and lazy streaks of summer clouds slide by like snail trails. You leave the house clad only in your shift and your skirt, arms bare to enjoy the sun, which seems like a wonderful idea until you see the thick blackberry brambles scrunched like old newspaper between the hillslopes. It's early but their purple fruits look full to bursting. Who could say no?

You arms are covered in scratches once the basket is filled, and the sun is still high in the sky. Morrigan never said how long she wanted you gone. You suppose it was probably more than an hour, so you meander into a patch of black-eyed susans and settle down on your back, content to watch the world turn for awhile.

It isn't more than five minutes when your head starts to ache.

 _Go on, RUN, the void, it's here._

You sit up in a snap. In all the time you've been in Thedas, you've never heard the whispers sound like _that_. You hook your hand around the basket and stand up in a rush, but it's too late.

"You there! Girl!"

You haven't heard a man's voice in months. Your breath stutters as you slowly turn your head to see two men downland by the marsh's edge. One is dressed plainly in linen and boiled leather, and you pay him no mind. It's the other man, with his helmet held in the crook of his arm and his hand hovering over his eyes that worry you.

That insignia branded on his armor- he could only be a templar.

"She looks Chasind, Edric. I do not think…"

The templar waves the other man down, seeming content to ignore him. "We may as well ask. Come down here, girl! I've got a question for you."

If only you were a tree, you could stay rooted to the spot and no one would think anything of it. But then he might chop you down, wouldn't he? He's a templar, and you- you're a _mage_ , and he could kill you and no one would think anything of it.

You clutch the basket to your chest and step carefully down the hill. Standing suddenly before him, you struggle to look him in the eye. "Yes, ser?" You ask, quiet as a mouse.

"Do you live around here?"

"Yes, ser."

"Sort of a strange place to be, isn't it?" His shadow shifts, it's head tilting.

The heat creeps up your neck. "I… I was…"

"...Shirking your chores, were you?"

He laughs. The break in the tension gives you the courage to look up, and you quickly realize how young he is. Ginger-haired and lobstered by the sun, you don't think he could be more than a few years older than Morrigan. He has the templar armor on, certainly, but it's casually held together, and he's added a personal touch, a beaded token wrapped around his neck. There's a lazy smile on his face, and his eyes are staring through you, not at you, like he isn't much concerned with the going-on's.

You deflate, only a little. "Um… Yes, ser."

The man in leather is older than his companion, and grumpier too. He folds his arms and gruffly asks, "You're supposed to interrogate her, not torture her. Can we go now?"

The templar rolls his eyes, "Calm down, I'll be done in a moment. Do you often visit the marshes, child? We're looking for a Tevinter ruin, a small tower sunken into the water. It's marked on our maps, but I think they may be old, and the land has since changed."

You know exactly what he speaks of- a thin, toppled tower, leaning drunkenly on a half dead sycamore. It's less than a mile from Flemeth's shack.

"No, ser." You whisper, and the lie goes down easy. "I'm not allowed to wander very far."

He sighs. "I suppose that's a good thing. Ah, well." He winks, "I hope your mother is kind to you- it really is a lovely day. Though I advise you find your shirt before you head back. Good day!"

Your blush makes him laugh again, and you greedily snatch the chance to leave. Back with the flowers, you watch them go with wide eyes, and once they're out of sight you run.

* * *

 _*Obligatory transition chapter*_

 _Reader's world is going to start expanding soon! I'm wondering what characters to include, hm... Anyways, I'm probably going to start staggering these a little more. One a week maybe? It's fun to vomit out chapter after chapter, but knowing me, I'll just burn myself out._


	4. Chapter 4

**Taken by the Sky**

 _ **Part One: The Wilds**_

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The door slams against the wall.

"Flemeth! Morrigan! There is-! There-!"

The two women in question look at you as if you've entirely lost your mind. You must look a sight, hair blown wild and chest heaving. Have you ever shouted at them before? Or raised your voice? Or… How often do you speak at all, really? A flush creeps up your neck and over your cheeks.

"What is it, girl?" Flemeth asks.

"There was a Templar." You murmur.

"And?"

"I just thought you'd like to know… He spoke to me and he… Well, he seemed like he was heading this way."

Morrigan's gold eyes glow with a strange light as she looks you over, narrowing to a sliver as she looks down upon your bedraggled, grass strewn skirts, and then up to the angry red marks on your arms. Dangerously, she asks, "Did he touch you?"

"No." You say, " No . He asked if I'd ever seen the tower, in the lake."

Flemeth tilts her head and smiles, a cat playing with a mouse, "And what did you say to him?"

"I told him no."

She laughs. You hadn't expected her to be overly concerned, but to be amused? You realize that maybe they knew they were being hunted all along. "Well, Morrigan," she says, "It seems to me that you were wrong on both counts. Tell me, child, are you interested in another lesson?"

Morrigan's face sours instantly. "She will only get in the way."

"Oh?" Flemeth smirks, "I seem to recall you once enjoying such games."

"She is too old for games."

"We are never too old for games. Come, Rhiannon. I will instruct you on some of the finer arts."

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.

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It's sundown when you hear the shouting.

"On behalf of the Chantry! Open your doors and come out quietly!"

Slowly, slowly you open the door and peek your head out. There are three templars standing outside, faceless and helmed, their armor a glossy gray patina shimmering with a violent red sheen. Two of them draw their swords when you slide your body under the eave, but one templar, far to the right and slimmer than the rest, lets go of his sheathed sword and murmurs something low and hurried to his companions.

The man in the middle roughly shakes his head, and the last templar uneasily adds his sword to the fray.

The door widens and Flemeth stands behind you, placing a hand heavily on your shoulder. "Well, well. It would seem we have some unexpected guests," Flemeth says, "Shall I have the child put the kettle over the fire? 'Tis a long walk from Lothering, and I would loathe for you to return completely empty handed."

Their leader slices his hand through the air, "Quiet! We are not here to play games, witch. Come calmly and, Maker willing, you will be spared. Resist, and perish."

"So many options." Flemeth teases, "And what of my girl? What mighty plans does the Maker have for her?"

It is the last man who speaks this time, gentler than the other by far. "If she is free of magic, she will be taken to the Chantry, ma'am. Otherwise, she will be given to the Circle."

"And do you know that from experience, young man?"

He seems ready to answer, his free hand wrapping around the token at his neck, but is swiftly interrupted.

"Do not speak to her, initiate- who knows what profane magic she possesses." The leader says, softer than you could have believed. The young templar slumps at the reprimand and you wish, unfruitfully, that you could see their faces. The leader's voice is so much harder when he says, "Answer me now, Apostate, before I am forced to make a decision for you."

Flemeth's hand digs deep into your muscle. "The decision was always yours, Ser Templar." Her humor is gone, her voice gone to gravel, "Leave now and, your Maker willing, you all shall live. Stay, and perish."

The templars raise their shields, Flemeth opens her arms, and you start running.

You run faster than you ever have, leaping over streams and bounding over roots. You're being followed -the jangling of the plate is unmistakable in the quiet night- but you think there is only one. The fear falls behind you as you flee, but for reasons far beyond you, this is becoming thrilling. Almost fun. After all, what is there to fear? There is a plan, there are allies, and you've come to know this land like your own.

The sun sinks as you lead the chase. You know the way.

The clearing is dark but for the light of the rising moon, your pond as black as ever. You stumble in the reeds, your eyes rising to the rift of the cliff, fringed with trees. A stick cracks behind you, and your turn in a swirl of skirt.

The templar takes off his helm, dropping it to the grass. When you realize it's Edric you feel your heart drop and the joy quickly fades. Edric raises his hands, palms out in prostration, before he lowers them to his sword. When your back stiffens, ice flaking at your feet, he shakes his head and gently says a single word. "Peace."

And the sword falls down with the helm.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"But my mother?"

"That-" He can't find words, and you're grateful for that, you don't want him to seem sane, but then he says, "That was badly done. I'm truly sorry. I wish there was another way."

"There is." You say quickly, "Go back. Leave me be." Your gaze lingers behind him, searching, "Quickly."

"The wilds is no place for a girl on her own. The Circle is the safest place for you. I've a sister there- It will take time, but you can find happiness there, I know it."

He steps forward, you step back. The anxiety creeps around your heart, strangles your voice, "Leave. Please ."

"I understand you're scared. I will not hurt you, but I will use force if I must."

He comes gentle, kindly corralling. It lets you see behind him clearly, lets you see a thousand eyes creeping in the gloom. You make a snap decision, between one heartbeat and the next, and lift your hand to him, stomach sinking at the soft smile on his face. Your fingers brush and then-

The giant spider's spindly legs wrap around Edric like a vice, mandibles ripping his neck in twain and splattering you with his hot blood.

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"Have you yet to witness death?" Morrigan asks.

Your reverie breaks. You've been staring at Edric's body for a long while, long enough for Morrigan to change form and stand before you, breaking your line of sight with the length of her body.

"No. Not like that." You say quietly. You lift your face to hers and try to ground yourself in the moment- in the realities. "Thank you for…Thank you."

Morrigan waves away your thanks, "One does their part. 'Twas easy enough with him so distracted."

She kneels beside the body, her hand cupping an open flame. For some reason it's that that ruins you; Edric is dead and she means to burn him and his blood is on your face . Bile rises in your throat but you swallow it down, cringing quietly at the sickly burn.

"Wait!" You cry out as she touches fire to his clothes.

Her light flashes out and she stares up at you, perturbed. "What?" She snaps, looking down and then up before asking, "Did you want it?"

Want what, you nearly ask, before you see the tokem held between her fingertips. Up close you can see the details- a primitive looking stag's head, carved of redwood, beaded leather thong connecting from one antler to another. The wood is worn in the middle like someone had worried it one too many time between his fingers.

"I do." You say. Saving it from the flames seems right; makes you feel better. Burning it would be like a second death.

Morrigan cringes as she unties it from his split neck, and drops it, tacky with blood, into your hands. "It looks Chasind." She says, hand once more alight, "One wonders where he got it."

.

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Morrigan leaves, but you stay. You need to wash away the blood, you tell her.

Edric's body takes four hours to burn.

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You've changed. The rest stays the same.

It takes some time for the grass to grow back outside your hut. The bodies were gone once you'd wandered home that night, but there was smoke in the air, and the whole place smelled of roasted meat. A dragon, you assumed. A dragon , the whispers agreed.

You think about it while you work. It would be useful, to become an animal. To run, to hide, and maybe, if -when- you really needed it, to fight. Mortar and pestle in hand, you ask Morrigan over the sound of scraping, "Could you teach me to shapeshift as you do? Like the spider?"

"I could if I had the desire to." She says as she chops, "I do not."

Flemeth's snort breaks the work's rhythm. "Then find it." You both look back in tandem, faces affixed. "It will be a far better use of your time than flitting about town, looking to be admired."

"Excuse me? I do not flit about." Morrigan looks affronted on multiple accounts. She points her shiny knife in your direction and protests, "But that is not even the point! Her control is weak, her rune casting is horrific, and I've never even seen her attempt a flame outside the fireplace. What makes you think she could even hold the spell?"

"Let's not be delusional, girl- I remember your runes when you were her size. And Rhiannon can cast fire well enough, she simply chooses not to."

"I don't want to cause a forest fire." You try to explain.

It would probably be better if you hadn't said anything at all. Morrigan looks at you like you've grown a third head, mouth agape and brows slung low. She stares at Flemeth, 'Can you believe what's just come out of her mouth?' written plain across her face, but Flemeth, unconcerned, merely shrugs.

Morrigan makes a noise of deep disgust, throws her hands up, and leaves the hut.

"She can't avoid you forever." Flemeth says, "But she will try."

"Couldn't you just teach me?" You ask.

"And where would be the fun in that? Now, about your control..."

* * *

 _BlOoD fOr ThE bLoOd GoD!_


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